


akrasia

by advantagetexas



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, also kara is a good mom and luther is a good dad, new android crimes division heyo, slow burn as fuck, theyre background characters but i just need yall to Know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-07 17:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15223979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/advantagetexas/pseuds/advantagetexas
Summary: a·kra·sia-əˈkrāZH(ē)ə-the state of mind in which someone acts against their better judgment through weakness of will.Hank has never had a better judgement, or at least not one that he trusted as far as he could throw it. Connor, on the other hand, well, Connor was a different story.





	1. they left you here below

**Author's Note:**

> so my plan is for this to be 15 chapters and an epilogue, but we'll see how that works out. oh, and not to spoil my own story, but it's going to have a happy ending, so dont worry. theres too much sadness in the world to not have something to brighten it up, so fear not, itll all be okay

_“Dear forgiveness, I saved a plate for you. Quit milling around the yard and come inside.” –Richard Siken (Crush, A Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out)_

          Android Crimes Division. That was the fancy title of the new DPD department headed by Lieutenant Hank Anderson after the Rebellion, after the 6 month stalemate between Jericho and the US government, after the amendment finally setting our metallic compatriots free.

          An entire department for all of Detroit that consisted of one washed up has-been, one bigot, one nameless rookie, and one genius fucking android. Well, it was something, at least.

          Hank sighed as he looked over what Fowler had jokingly called his “new kingdom”. Connor and the rookie were looking over their latest set of notes silently, their LEDs blinking furiously as they shared information between themselves. Gavin was missing from his desk, as usual. That idiot was probably off harassing one of the front desk androids again. No matter how many times Hank threatened to knock his teeth in for it, it never quite got through that thick skull of his.

          Just as he was thinking about sending a rescue mission after Reed, Connor waved him over.

          “Yeah, what do you need?” Hank asked, very much hoping that it was something simple so that he could just finish up and go home already. Being at this station was like being trapped in a hell that was resting at the bottom of a fire pit in a slightly larger hell. He didn’t know how Connor and Thompson dealt with it every night.

          “We IDed the suspect from the last case,” Thompson started, standing up straighter than a board. She was a tiny little thing, a freed AP700 that had just barely passed the physical force exam after being woken up by Markus himself in one of Jericho’s first protests. Apparently she’d been a stenographer for one of Detroit’s more prominent writers, which made her a whiz at desk work.

          “Unfortunately, the serial has been listed as deactivated, and recently,” Connor added in, pointing to an image of a particularly attractive CX100 on his worktop screen. “Self-immolation, supposedly, but the neighbors suspect foul play.”

          “Wouldn’t be the first time. Can we follow up on the fire?”

          “The case has been listed as closed by the DPD,” Connor replies, and Hnak can almost sense the sadness in his voice under that professional tone he kept on like a mask.

          “Thompson, follow up on it,” Hank directed, making Connor look up in surprise and do that eyebrow quirking thing that drove Hank almost as crazy as those fucking coin tricks. “Keep a low profile, see what you can get from the neighbors. Don’t get caught, investigating closed cases is-“

          “Frowned upon, I understand sir,” she said with a godawful picture perfect salute before grabbing her coat from the back of Connor’s chair and hurrying off.

          “She really looks up to you, Lieutenant,” Connor said, almost amused by how the girl’s enthusiasm got to Hank. “Her and Kay both.”

          “Yeah, well, I couldn’t care less if her and that girlfriend of hers wanted to murder me in my sleep, as long as she’s a good officer that’s all that matters.”

          “You don’t give yourself enough credit, Hank.”

          “Deadbeats don’t deserve awards, kid. And they certainly don’t deserve praise and admiration.” Hank looked up at the clock, seeing it blink a pleasant 6:45pm. “Speaking of deadbeats, it’s late, I’m going home.” Connor just sighed, looking back at his screen.

          “Thompson and I will continue to work this case, see what we can get,” Connor said, typing away on the keys.

          “Alright, sounds fine to me.” Hank turned to leave, then thought better and turned back momentarily. “Oh, and tell Thompson to tell Kay happy birthday.”

          He could almost see a smile forming on Connor’s face as he turned to leave, almost hear the obnoxious “you care more than you let on” pop into his head. Yeah, fuck that. Caring about things was for squares.

          He was almost out the door when he saw one of the receptionists still at the desk, typing away on something or other.

          “Kara? You still here?” he called out, and the android turned to look at him. She was his favorite out of all the new receptionists, she always had a kind word to say, and it stirred something in his cold, dead heart to hear her talk about her daughter.

          “Just finishing up this sheet and then I’ll be gone,” she said, hitting enter with a flourish, then quickly shutting down her terminal. “See, all done.”

          “Well, I guess that’s alright then. Are you taking the bus again?”

          “No, Luther is coming to pick me up after he gets Alice from ballet. Her teacher says she’s a natural,” she says, beaming with pride as she exits the desk, her jacket held close to her chest.

          “You gonna make an honest man outta that poor guy yet, Kara?” Hank jokes, and Kara laughs, putting a hand up to cover her mouth.

          “Soon, Lieutenant. We’re trying to save up for Alice’s college first,” her smile drops as she says it, and Hank knows that it’s because of the obvious. Not many chances for androids to get financial aid. Even less for scholarships, no matter how bright Alice was.

          “Well, when you do finally tie the knot you can count on the ACD being there in our Sunday best,” Hank tried, glad to see that it brightened Kara up a little. “Anything with an open bar gets my seal of approval, and you know that Connor’s a bleeding heart for weddings. You can see it on that tabula rasa face of his.” Kara laughs at that, her shoulders shaking near silently.

          “I’d love to see how you get Detective Reed to come,” she says, still laughing.

          “We put one of those kid leashes on him, obviously,” Hank says flippantly, which drives Kara into even deeper laughter. Just as she’s recovering, the front door slides open, a little girl in a rainbow jacket running through the front doors. Kara leans down, pulling her into a hug and swinging her around before resting the girl on her hip. Luther follows shortly, waving to Hank from the door. Hank salutes back in return.

          “How’s my darling today?” Kara asks, and Alice nearly jumps out of her arms in excitement, beginning to speak excitedly about her day. Kara smiles, listening to every word the little girl says. She gives Hank a nod of goodbye then heads out to the car with Luther, who has to almost duck to not hit the top of the door. Damn, that man is tall.

          Looking at Kara’s family, alive and happy and _living,_ despite everything going on around them, gives Hank at least a little bit of hope. Maybe things would be okay after all.

_ "There is optimism in that, too, in knowing that more happiness is possible." -Hanif Abdurraqib (They Can't Kill Us Until They Kill Us) _


	2. nobody wins; ask caesar

          “Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed,” Hank sighed, looking at the most recent crime scene dropped into his division’s lap.

          A broken and mangled WR400, identified as a Jessica Moran, lay in a puddle of her own thirium at the foot of the apartment building staircase. Her husband, Jeffery Moran, was being interviewed by a beat cop upstairs. He had confessed an argument, a push gone too far, a crime of passion. The case was open and shut. That didn’t take away the blood or the senselessly snuffed out life, though.

          “I never figured you a poet, Lieutenant,” Connor said, crouching down to close the eyes of the victim, his hand coming away tinged blue with the dead woman’s thirium.

          “I’m not. It’s Siken,” Hank clarified gruffly. Connor turned to look at him, processed for a second.

          “Does this previously hidden interest in poetry correspond to why you minored in English despite it having no practical bearing on your academy status?”

          “Jesus, Connor. Can we go one day without you going through my goddamn file?”

          “My apologies. I’ll try to refrain,” Connor replied in that tone that meant that he 100% was not at all ever going to refrain. If there was one thing about Connor that Hank liked, it was the regularity and predictability of his complete and total assholery. A man that hid his hand was hard to deal with, but Connor might as well have been throwing his cards like ninja stars for how open about it he was.

          “We should go try to get an actual statement from the perp before he clams up and asks for a lawyer,” Hank said, trying to gently step over the body and up the stairs. Connor follows him up, for once quiet as they climbed to the second floor of the building. Their murderer was sat on the top stair, his head in his hands, just sobbing like a baby. He perked his head up when he heard them approach, jumping to his feet and cowering in the corner.

          “I didn’t do it on purpose, I swear!” he yelled, the beat cop immediately going for her gun. Connor pushed the woman’s hand down, stepping toward the crying man.

          “Jeffery, we believe you, we just need to know the whole story of what happened.”

          “She fell, I…I pushed her and she fell. I heard her head crack when she hit the bottom, and it just…she just…all that blue…” The man gets a glassy look in his eyes, and Connor snaps in front of him, bringing him back to reality.

          “What were you arguing about, Mr. Moran?” Connor pressed, and the man immediately chocked up again.

          “Stupid things. She wanted to go out dancing, but money is tight and I just, I got so mad and I just,” he mimes a strong push, “I should have just taken her dancing. She was so special and I wasted it.”

          “I’m sure that’s not-“Connor started, before being cut off.

          “Out of anyone, fuck, out of EVERYONE in Detroit, and she chose me,” Jeffery looks over at Hank, the sadness in his eyes drilling deep into him, “I’m sure you know what that’s like. Feeling like you’re the luckiest sonofabitch on earth.”

          “Feeling like even when it’s bad, nothing can go wrong,” Hank agreed, and the man nodded, sending tears down his cheeks.

          “She was from the Eden Club, before she woke up. One of the prettiest damn androids ever made and she chose me. A fucking warehouse foreman, and an unemployed one at that.”

          “A real Jackie and John Kennedy situation,” Connor quipped, obviously trying to be comforting, but in reality just sending the poor man into another paroxysm of tears.

          “I don’t care anymore, just put me away. I deserve it. It should be me bleeding out at the bottom of the stairs, not Jess, not her.”

          Hank pulled Connor away, back down the stairs, before he could upset the man more. They’d gotten their confession, which was as far as they needed to go. No need to torture the guy any more than he was already torturing himself.

          “It’s a lonely world of frightened people,” Connor says, seemingly apropos of nothing. He looks to Hank, tilting his head, almost waiting.

          “Just as it has always been. Bukowski. You been reading poetry in a switched tab while we were interviewing that guy?”

          “Possibly,” Connor replied, not even seeming the slightest bit guilty. “I’m fully capable of having two focuses at once. Plus, I find the things I’ve been reading quite interesting.”

          “Yeah, well, don’t spend too much time with Bukowski. Guy’s got some good stuff, but most of it is the same as any two bit misogynistic hack. Branch out, try some Siken, some Hilborn, some Plath.” Hank rethinks, shakes the thought away, physically waving it out of the air. “Actually, scratch Plath, go with Smith instead. Danez, not Stevie.”

          “You seem to know a lot about this subject, detective, why have you not brought it up before?”

          “What? A guy’s not allowed to have hobbies?” Hank gave Connor a wicked side-eye, and the android put his hands up in capitulation.

          “Not what I was implying. Just surprised that you have such a… _creative_ hobby. Pardon my ignorance, but you don’t seem quite the type, Hank.”

          “I don’t just drink myself into a stupor every night,” Hank scoffed, then thought about it for a second, reconsidered, and said, “Well. Not _every_ night.” Hank could see the LED wheels spinning in Connor’s head, the indicator blinking from yellow to blue.

          “Do you perhaps have an aversions to Bukowski because one of the central concepts of his work is alcoholism?” The light on his temple changed to solid blue, a sign that he was already convinced in what he was saying. Hank sighed, knowing that he wasn’t going to win this particular battle. Once Connor had an idea about something, he went with it, through hell or high water. Hank could never be quite sure if that was something left over from his “android sent by CyberLife” phase, or if it was just something that was a part of his personality now. Whatever it was, Hank kinda liked it. It made Connor more human, even though it made his life a living hell.

          “Shut it, Connor, don’t go psychoanalyzing me.”

          “Psychoanalysis is one of the main features of my model,” Connor said, a hint of that machine left in his voice, making Hank pause for a second. But then he turns and the bastard winks at him, that lopsided thing where he just blinks, but one eye blinks really hard and the other doesn’t.

          “Winking wasn’t, apparently,” Hank joked back, and Connor laughed; a real, genuine laugh, if a bit stunted. It made the freckles on the android’s face all the more noticeable.  It was a cute laugh, one that was as rare as any sapphire and twice as captivating. It made Hank wonder if that was something a room full of scientists had designed to be appealing, or if that was just Connor, pure and genuine.

          “We can’t all be perfect, Hank,” Connor said, still laughing, looking over at the detective fondly. Hank could feel something in his chest stirring, just a little, and he was not here for that shit at all. The last thing he needed was some dumbass feelings for a coworker, and an android one at that. No sir, not today, Satan.

          “You’re right, not all of us can be engineered to be the perfect man, some of us have genetics and shit,” Hank agreed with a laugh, thinking he was absolutely fucking hilarious, until Connor turned toward him and _batted his goddamn eyelashes_ like some sort of 50s coquette.  

          “That’s high praise, Lieutenant,” he said, while Hank just pushed him out of the way on the way to the car.

          “Shut up, don’t talk about. Get in the fucking car. Just…just get in the car.”

          “Whatever you say, Hank, whatever you say.”

_“Lord, give me a sign, red & octagonal.” –Danez Smith (Don’t Call Us Dead)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from a bukowski poem, just fyi, also, i took some liberties with Hank's hobbies, hopefully theyre not too ooc, i wrestled for like a week with trying to do character analysis and then realized that 98.9% of the depressed people I know like some sort of poetry, lmaoo


	3. the distance between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO FORGOT ABOUT THE REST OF THIS THAT WAS JUST SITTING ON HER HARDDRIVE, spoiler alert, its me and im a dumbass, so heres like 6 chapters all at once, also, i had to switch to uploading with firefox because my computer is so old that it cant run chrome anymore, so the format may be a bit wonky

     “Let’s jump ahead to the moment of epiphany, in gold light, as the camera pans to where the action is, lakeside and backlit, as it all falls in to frame, close enough to see the blue rings of my eyes as I say something ugly.” –Richard Siken (Crush)

     Hank honestly didn’t remember calling anyone, but was not even the slightest bit surprised to see Connor leaning over him when his vision cleared for long enough to see straight. He had that look on his face, the one where Hank could tell he was disappointed, the one that actually somewhat got to him.   
      “Connor, I-“ Hank tried to start, but Connor just held up a hand to stop him, walking away before he could say anything else. They’d been through this routine before. Connor would show up, save Hank from himself, and they would never speak of it. Something about tonight seemed different, though, and Hank didn’t like it. He got up from the couch, dropping the bottle of whiskey onto the floor and trying to go after Connor.   
      “Sit down, Hank,” came the reply, curt and annoyed. Connor was in the kitchen, his arms full of beer bottles as he attempted to clean up. Hank ignored him, still trying valiantly to get anywhere except the living room that suddenly felt like it was strangling him. “Sit. Down.” Hank looked up to see Connor angrier than he’d ever seen him, with an arm pointed straight out to point at the couch.   
      “Or what? You gonna court martial me?” Hank didn’t know why he was being like this. Actually, he did. He always ruined good things for himself inadvertently, so why not actively ruin them? Shove away all the good things in his life and then nothing could ever hurt him by leaving again. And Connor…Connor was the best thing he’d had going for him in a while. So he had to drive him away before he found something better and left on his own.   
      “Shut up, Hank,” Connor almost muttered to himself, sighing and sweeping the rest of the mess into the trash. He came out of the kitchen, his face looking much softer, much less angry. “Sorry. Let’s get you to bed.” He put out a hand for Hank to take, but he waved it off, walking off on his own.   
      “You don’t have to baby me, Connor. I’m a drunk asshole, not a child.”  
      Connor was silent for a good minute, just making sure that Hank didn’t fall or knock anything down, but Hank could sense something rattling around in that mechanical brain of his.   
      “Am I not allowed to care about you?” Connor finally said as Hank sat down on the edge of his half-made bed.   
      “What?” That was…not what he was expecting. He was expecting some sort of admonishment, as was their usual. Some vague threat of court martial that never went though. Not this.   
      “I care about you,” Connor repeated, looking away from Hank and crossing his arms over his chest. “It hurts me to see you tear yourself apart like this.”   
      “What do you care? If I kick the bucket they’ll just give you a new CO. One that’s probably more competent,” Hank argued, and Connor just sighed, putting a hand to his temple to hide the blinking yellow LED that was giving away his emotions. They stayed there for a second, just stuck in that exact moment until it finally broke. Connor sighed, stepped forward, and put his arms around Hank’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug. He could hear the beating of the android’s heart from under his synthetic skin, seeming a mile a minute in the quiet room. Connor wasn’t saying anything, just standing there, heart pacing faster than it should be, and it was kinda freaking Hank out. He pulled away, and Connor turned his back just as fast, but not fast enough to hide the truth. There was a clear, shiny tear track running down the left side of his face that he wiped away in earnest before turning back.   
      “Why is it always Tuesdays, Hank? Why is it that every Tuesday I have to come over here and make sure you don’t drink yourself into an early grave?” There was a hint of sadness under the accusation, a hint of something else under the mask that Connor put up for himself.   
      “Everyone knows that if you hate yourself you drink on Tuesday,” Hank joked, his temporary smile dropping off just as soon as he put it up when he saw that it didn’t even slightly lighten up Connor’s demeanor. “But I get your point.”   
      “So you’ll stop.” Connor said it like a statement, but it’s more of a question.   
      “I didn’t say that.”  
      “You should. It’s not healthy.” There’s no trace of judgement in Connor’s voice, which is probably what hurts the most. He’s not judgmental, he’s just sad and upset and Hank can’t help but feel like it’s all his fault. “I won’t always be here to help you out,” he added with a sigh.   
      “Alright, alright. I’ll cut back.” It’s a shitty compromise, but it’s all Hank can promise. Even someone as stubborn as him knows that you can’t just quit shit like this cold turkey. He hopes that Connor understands, at least somewhat, that he genuinely wants to try. “I’m tired of all this. Tired of being out of my fucking gourd on shitty, cheap liquor every other night.” Connor just looked at him and tilted his head. He moved the hand from his temple, his LED back to being a calm blue. He nodded and turned to leave, pausing just before closing the door.   
      “Hey, Connor?” Hank called out, making the android look back for just a second. “Thanks.”   
      “It’s not a problem, Lieutenant.” Connor left, shutting the door behind him, but Hank swore that he could see just a little smirk on his face. 

     “The thing about grief is that it never truly leaves. From the moment it enters you, it becomes something you are always getting over.” –Hanif Abdurraqib (They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us)


	4. secondhand sorrow

“Paradise is a world where everything is sanctuary & nothing is a gun.” –Danez Smith (Don’t Call Us Dead)

     “So what’s the new case?” Thompson asked from the back of the car. She, Hank, and Connor were all en route to the crime scene, somewhere in the suburbs outside of the city. Hundreds of cookie cutter houses were zipping out the window as Hank looked out. He’d decided to let Connor drive. He was still kindof hungover from the night before.   
      “Double homicide, one android, a TR400, and his wife,” Connor relayed. Something about that model number rang a bell in Hank’s head, but he just couldn’t figure out from where. He knew it wasn’t Connor’s. It wasn’t Thompson’s. It wasn’t that revolution leader friend of Connor’s, Markus’s. It was right on the tip of his brain. But he just couldn’t grab it.   
      “We got names for them?” Hank asked, and Connor nodded.   
      “Trish and Kenneth Okamoto. He took her last name, apparently. Common trend among woken androids, gives them a sense of identity beyond the names they pick for themselves.” Just as Connor finished his briefing, the crime scene came within view and he parked the car between two squad cars on the street of the cul de sac. The crew disembarked from the car, out into the sweltering heat of the Detroit summer. Hank could already feel himself sweating just from the sun. Gross.   
      “Thompson, get one of these beat cops and go canvas the neighbors. And don’t overheat, it’s hotter than Satan’s taint out here.” Thompson salutes and rushes off, set on her new goal. Connor and Hank head inside the small bungalow, ducking under the crime scene tape. Connor interfaces with another one of the beat cops and points Hank in the direction of the spare bedroom.   
      Hank opens the door and immediately wants to puke. The room is decorated in tones of bright pink and purple. There’s a crib in the corner, with white carved wood bars and more little pink sheets. Every possible surface is covered in baby supplies, stuffed animals, all untouched, unloved, just sitting there. Even the window was decorated with pink lace curtains and little butterflies, hand painted on with what looked like oil paints. And then, in the corner, was the crime scene. Hank looked at it just long enough to understand why he recognized the model number. In the corner, beneath the sprays of blue thirium and red blood, were two people. One was a petite Asian woman, her glasses askew, clutching her husband. A TR400.   
      Hank backed out of the room, clearing out of that godforsaken house as quickly as he could, Connor following his every move.   
      “Lieutenant? Lieutenant! Hank!” Connor finally managed to grab Hank’s shoulder spinning him around. Hank could feel himself breathing heavily, his hands shaking a bit. “Are you alright, Hank?”  
      “I didn’t recognize the model number. I would’ve never went into that fucking house if I had recognized that model number!”   
      “Hank, what-“  
      “The girl at the front desk of the precinct. The nice one with the short hair and the kid,” Hank starts, seeing a flash of recognition in Connor’s eyes.   
      “Kara,” he says, beginning to realize why Hank had to flee the scene immediately.   
      “Her boyfriend is a TR400, and I just- I just freaked out for a second.” Hank opens the door of the car and sits down in the passenger seat, his legs still outside the car. He puts his face in his hands, hoping to wash the image from his head. “Sorry, just give me a minute and I’ll be fine.”   
Connor put a hand on his shoulder, in solidarity, it seemed, and then went back into the house to investigate. Hank took a good, long minute, calmed himself down, and got back up, closing the car door and steeling himself to go back into the house. He ducks under the tape again, and goes back to the room. The coroners have come through, taken away the bodies, which makes it easier and more difficult at the same time.   
      It was difficult, seeing someone you knew, or someone that looked exactly alike, just murdered like that. What if it was an RK900? An 800? What would Hank have done then? He shook the thought from his head. That wouldn’t happen, Connor would never come into harm. Nobody on his team would. He would make sure of it.  
Connor is analyzing the scene, his LED spinning a solid yellow. He leans down and puts out his hand to take a sample of the blood. Hank makes a hissing noise, like something you’d do for a petulant cat, and he straightens up again, forgoing the sample entirely. From what Hank can tell, they were both shot in the back, just once, both in quick succession. There was a puddle of purple blood mixed together in the corner.   
      “They were finishing up the papers on an adoption. Set for next month,” Connor relayed, the despair coming through clearly in his voice. “A baby girl.”   
      “And they’d just finished the nursery,” Hank added. Connor nodded, giving the room one last look before turning tail and heading out of the room to investigate the rest of the house. Hank followed him out, before being distracted by an errant muddy footprint in the hall. “Hey, Connor, come do a print analysis on this. It seems too fancy to be a cop boot.”   
      “You’re right,” Connor agreed, stepping over to the print. “It’s a women’s size 13 boot, triple-welt Grensons with a custom tred. It’s…well that can’t be right.”   
      “Spit it out, Connor.”  
      “It’s a custom tred, only 200 pairs made. For the CyberLife board of directors' annual Christmas gift,” Connor said, the LED on his temple briefly spinning red. Hank knows the feeling, just hearing the name CyberLife gives him a sense of dread ever since that incident in the basement of their facility. He can’t even imagine what it’s like for Connor. Poor kid must be shaking in his, well, boots at the thought that those wack-jobs could be involved in this.   
      Just then, Thompson bursts into the room, panting like a dog. She doubles over, hands on her knees, and holds up a hand.   
      “Sorry, overheating. Gimme a second,” she apologized, before straightening up and grabbing Connor’s wrist, interfacing the information she’d collected directly into his brain. He grabs the underside of her arm with the same hand, interfacing his information back.   
      “Yo, HAL and EDI, can I get any fuckin’ idea what’s going on here?” Hank joked, breaking the focus between the two androids.   
      “Sorry Hank,” Connor apologized, nodding to Thompson who quickly hurried off again. “Thompson got reports of a person of interest. Sharice Von Lichtenstein, one of the head programmers for the TR series. She’s on the board of directors for CyberLife and,” Connor coughed, obviously slightly uncomfortable with his next words, “the original purchaser for the TR400 vic.”   
      “He has a name, Connor,” Hank admonished, but his heart wasn’t in it. He could tell that Connor was trying to make it seem as non-heinous as possible, but it was hard to ignore what humans had thought of androids before the rebellion. “In any case, let’s go catch us a murdering fascist.” 

“And if you decide to kill somebody, make it anybody and not somebody: some men are made of more special, precious parts.” –Bukowski (Poem for Personal Managers)


	5. you always said how you love dogs

“…and the canaries were beautiful and chattered but never sang.” –Bukowski (The Girls and the Birds)

     The outside of Von Lichtenstein’s home was opulent as you’d probably imagine of the outside of one of the most influential AI technicians this side of the Canadian border. The garden was well kept, the grounds immaculate. Almost too immaculate.   
      “There’s still non-deviant androids here,” Connor said as they got out of the car, backing up Hank’s suspicions.   
      “Just what I was thinking. Nothing like a bit of violating some android rights while you commit murder down the street. Thompson, go see what you can find, wake them up if you can. If anything goes down, interface with Connor and we’ll come get you.” Thompson nodded, running off to be the big damn hero, while Hank and Connor strode up to the front door.   
      “DPD, open up,” Hank yelled, pounding on the thick wooden door with the flat of his hand. A second later, a pleasant-faced AP700 opened the door, smiling serenely at them.  
      “What can I do for you, offi-“Before the android could finish, Connor put a hand on his shoulder, the skin on his hand momentarily deactivating as the man’s eyes cleared of that weird mental fog that all sleeping androids have.   
      “Where’s Von Lichtenstein?” Hank asked the android, moving Connor out of the way as his glamor regenerates.   
      “Out of the house at the moment. Where-“   
      “Just sit tight, we’re gonna take a look around,” Hank reassured the AP as they pushed past him into the house. It was one of those fake Silicon Valley type designs, minimalist and empty. There was an HK400 tending to some plants in the corner and Connor interfaced with him as they passed, the HK’s LED spinning yellow. They moved carefully to the back of the house, toward where the bedroom might be. Connor kicked down the door and Hank followed. The room was empty, save for a bed and a TV stand.   
Well, that and a purple stained pair of size 13 triple-welt white leather boots sitting beside the closet door. Just one glance at the things told the whole story, they were covered in a mix of dried red blood and blue thirium, so much that the laces were almost completely soaked, the plastic ends beginning to fray from the moisture.   
      “Son of a bitch. This is gonna be one hell of a case to break to Fowler,” Hank sighed, relaxing just for a second. Just as he did so, Connor’s head perked up, pushing him away from the window just as Thompson came crashing through it, thrown by a GJ500. Connor wasted no time climbing though the window to grapple with the guy, while Hank helped Thompson up.   
      “What the fuck did I tell you?” Hank yelled as he and Thompson raced through the house to the front door and into the front yard.   
      “I know, I know! I thought I had it!” Just as they rounded the corner, they saw the GJ, standing over Connor with his service gun pointed at his chest. “Don’t you fucking dare!” Thompson shouted, rushing the guard and drawing his ire. He pointed the gun at her and fired before Hank could even move. The second the gun went off, Hank could see the horror dawn on Connor’s face, just as his hand clamped around the guard’s leg and the fog cleared from his eyes.   
      Hank rushed over, hoping beyond hope that the wound wasn’t serious. Thirium began to dye the green grass below Thompson as she tried to get up. Her shoulder was blown clear through, disabling her right arm, but she was alive, that’s all that mattered. Hank looked over from where he was trying to keep Thompson from sitting up, seeing Connor interfacing for an ambulance and ordering the now ultra-apologetic GJ500 to go wake the rest of Von Lichtenstein’s androids.   
      “Sit tight, kid, don’t move,” Hank ordered, pointing at the injured android like a stern father. “How long for that ambulance, Connor?”  
      “5 minutes, Hank,” Connor answered, jogging over just as Thompson finally quit struggling, laying back on the grass and closing her eyes. “Hopefully faster.”   
      A noise came from the front door of the house, and Hank turned to see the three androids from earlier, along with an MP600 carrying a first aid kit. In a second, Hank and Connor were moved away by the other androids who began to work quickly, pulling bags of blue thirium from seemingly nowhere.   
Just as the ambulance arrived, so did a black Range Rover, driven by someone wearing a dark hat and sunglasses, who, upon seeing the front yard decided to flee, leaving tire tracks in the grass as they peeled off.   
      “Fuck, Connor, that was Lichtenstein,” Hank cursed, rushing for the car. He barely bothered to make sure Connor was in before putting it in drive, chasing down the Range Rover with everything his old Chevy could give. They almost caught up to her, having to weave through the suburban traffic. This broad was an absolutely shit driver, high speed chase or no. Hank bumped the back of her car and it went spinning off the embankment and into a fence. The airbags went off and she didn’t get out of the car, even as Hank pulled over, Connor practically vaulting out of the car, his recovered gun drawn.   
      Her head was braced against the wheel, a single thread of blood dripping down onto her white slacks. She didn’t look like a murderer. She had these thick wire glasses that looked straight out of a textbook, her hair was cut into a blonde asymmetrical bob, she was dressed in a labcoat. For a second, he almost thought they had the wrong person, until he looked at the hideous thing sitting in the passenger seat.   
      “Connor, make a report and call in another ambulance,” Hank said, waving him away from the scene. There was a freshly detached thirium regulator just sitting there, dripping blue blood over the black leather seat. “Fucking got you,” Hank whispered to the unconscious woman, even though he knew it would serve no purpose. It just made him feel better. 

“What happens to the space that two people occupied together? How can it just disappear? Why can’t it just be something else?”-Melissa Broder (So Sad Today) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a side note, all my chapter titles are lyrics from songs i think are relevant to the plot, its kinda like, a lil bonus i guess


	6. say youll remember me

"Maybe I didn't think I had a right to admit I was sad." -Chloe Caldwell (I'll Tell You in Person)

     It had been a tough few days, especially for Hank. They’d secured an enditement for Von Lichtenstein, but the case was resolving at a snail’s pace because she was a big dick on campus at CyberLife. To make matters worse, Thompson was still on “touch and go” status at the local android clinic, which meant that Gavin was back on desk. The more Hank worked with that prick the more he hated him. Fowler had put him on the android desk thinking it would open his mind, but the fucker had just stayed as bigoted as ever and it itched like poison ivy under his skin.   
      “I’m just saying, if she would’ve followed protocol she wouldn’t be fucked up right now,” Gavin postured somewhere in the background. Hank tried to tune him out, focusing on his paperwork.   
      “She’s a good cop, Reed,” Connor replied, darling that he is, trying to defend Thompson’s honor. “Stubborn, but a good cop.”   
     “Yeah, well, good cops don’t get put on life support,” the prick said under his breath, and Hank just couldn’t keep quiet anymore.   
      “Reed, shut the fuck up. You got taken out by an ice cream truck driver once, so I don’t want to fucking hear about it.”  
      “Well at least it wasn’t a fucking bucket of bolts,” Reed retorted with a mean spirited glance in Connor’s direction.   
      “Don’t bring Connor into this,” Hank said, standing up to lean menacingly over Reed’s desk. The other detective just stared him down, unimpressed.   
      “Lieutenant, please,” Connor interrupted. “If you make him angry he’s just going to sabotage my work station again.”   
      “He’s going to do what, now?” Hank asked, his voice, in a near instant, turning the coldest it had ever been.   
      “Detective Reed sabotages my desk occasionally. Pours things on it, sets tacks under my keys, small things. Childish.” Connor says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like it’s okay for people to just push him around, ruin his things. And for some reason, that makes Hank angrier than he’s been in a long time. Sobriety was reopening all these emotions that he’d suppressed for years. Happiness, joy, anger, even. It fucking sucked.  
      “You’re lucky I don’t bash your fucking face in, Reed.” Hank says, his voice level by some miracle as he turns away.   
      “For what? Messing with your goddamn pet project? He’s a freak, Hank! All he does is sit there and type. He doesn’t sleep, he just spends all night at that fucking desk. It’s freaky.”   
      “It’s not as if I have anywhere else to go, Gavin,” Connor responded, in a tone that sounded extremely passive aggressive, which was just about as much as Connor would engage with Reed. Hank didn’t blame him. If Fowler hadn’t stitched him onto their division Hank would have been glad to be rid of the bastard. “Get over yourself.”   
      Reed didn’t respond, seemingly not finding the conversation very stimulating. But what he had said gnawed at Hank for the next few hours. Even after he left, something about what he’d said still lingered.   
      “Connor?” Hank asked across the desk. The android looked up, the one bit of his hair that was never in line with the rest bounced against his forehead as he quirked his head in confusion.   
      “You actually like living in this hellhole?” Connor thought for a second, really mulling the question over.   
      “Not particularly. I don’t have any experiences to compare my situation against, so I can’t say for certain.”   
      “You should come back to my house tonight, then. Sumo hasn’t seen you in a while, he keeps whinin’ for ya.” Hank tried to make it seem like a casual offer, one that he would make for anyone. The truth was, he was worried about Connor. Between this new information about Reed’s dickery and the memory of that gun being pointed at him, there was something in Hank that just wanted to protect him. Bring him close and not let him go.   
      Connor smiled at the mention of Sumo, that cute, lopsided smile of his, then said, “Of course, wouldn’t want to disappoint the king of the house.” That joke brought a smile to Hank’s face, a genuine one, for the first time in a while. It was a strange feeling.   
\----------------------------------  
      “Sumo!” Hank called out, and the huge dog came bounding in, passing right by him and jumping up onto Connor, knocking the poor boy down. “Sumo! Don’t be rude!”   
      “Hey buddy!” Connor exclaimed, laughing as the big dog licked at his face, covering it in gross dog spit. By the time Hank managed to extract him, Connor was drenched in it, to the point where it was actually kind of disgusting.   
      “There’s a shower in the back if you want to get rid of all that,” Hank offered, “And I can get you a change of clothes so you don’t have to sit around in that uncomfortable shit.”   
      “I’ve never taken a shower, it sounds interesting,” Connor enthused, which made Hank laugh, just a little.   
      An hour, a million dollars’ worth of hot water bills, and one change of clothes later, Connor was currently curled up with Sumo on the couch in a pair of Hank’s old sweatpants and an old DPD training hoodie. His hair was still wet, that one curl plastered with water over his temple, hiding his LED somewhat. He was reading an old paper copy of a poetry anthology, seeming very interested and petting Sumo with his other hand. The dog was sleeping quietly across his lap, more peaceful than Hank had seen him in a while. The TV was on to some sort of educational show, but Hank couldn’t stop looking over at Connor.   
      This just seemed too…domestic. Too real, too happy. Hank’s life hadn’t been this good in a long time. It wouldn’t last.   
      “Alright, I’m going to bed,” Hank said suddenly, almost out of the room before Connor could even reply.   
      “Goodnight, Hank,” Connor called back, and it made something in Hank’s heart shift in a way that was entirely unfamiliar. He went into his room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. He closed the blinds before getting into bed. When he was drinking, his insomnia had been insane, but now he could barely keep his eyes open long enough to pull the blankets over his chest. 

“I think I could love you until even the sun grows tired of coming back every spring to forgive us for another season of hiding.” –Hanif Abdurraqib (The Crown Ain’t Worth Much)


	7. say youll remember me

“Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again.” –Richard Siken (Crush, Scheherazade)

     The room shifted as soon as Hank closed his eyes, becoming an open field, rolling with bright green grass streaked with bright blue. Hank looked up, seeing that same GJ500, pointing Connor’s own gun at him, but now the situation is different. Connor isn’t in his police uniform, he’s wearing the clothes Hank loaned him, his hair wet and mused. He’s looking at the guard, fear-no, abject terror-clear as day on his face. Hank tries to run over, but no matter how hard he tries to move, his limbs won’t respond. He tries to scream, to tell Connor that it’s okay, that he’s going to be okay, but his throat won’t respond.   
      “I’m scared, Hank,” Connor whispers, and the gun goes off, leaving a bright blue circle in the center of his forehead.   
Hank wakes up in a cold sweat. By the light outside, it’s probably late at night. But beyond that, there’s a weight on the edge of his bed.   
      “Hank, are you alright?” Connor asked, pristine and very much alive. His clothes are rumpled, his hair pushed to one side, as if he’d laid on it while it was still wet and it had dried that way.   
      “Were you asleep?” Hank asked, trying very hard to avoid the question. Connor seems sheepish, but then nods.   
      “I wanted to try it,” he replied innocently. Just then, Sumo jumped onto the bed, licking Hank’s face like a maniac. “Sumo! Don’t be rude!” Connor laughs, and Sumo backs down immediately, curling up at the end of the bed.   
      “I can’t believe my dog likes you more than he likes me,” Hank sighed, more to himself than anything else.   
      “Sumo loves you very much, Lieutenant,” he paused for a second, then continued, “He just doesn’t see me as often, so he’s more excited to see me.”   
      “I guess that makes sense.” Hank paused again, looking Connor over. Even in the dim light, the freckles on his face are still visible. Hank had wondered for the longest time why CyberLife had bothered giving a police android freckles, but it didn’t seem to matter the motive. His eyes were reflecting that same shade of blue as the LED on his temple, the one that was pulsing on and off like a nightlight. It shone a gentle light on his face, framing his features like a renaissance painting. Connor brought a hand up and knocked loose that same piece of hair, letting it rest across his forehead again. It made him seem vulnerable; not as perfect as he was engineered to be. Something about it just appealed to Hank. Not that that mattered.   
      “Connor?” Hank started, drawing the android’s attention, the attention of those bright blue eyes. “How’ld you feel about staying here instead of the station?”   
      “Are you sure?” Connor seems doubtful, but for some reason it seems to be directed at Hank. “I don’t want to impose on your kindness, Lieutenant.”   
      “Nah, it’s not a problem. I’d actually feel better about it; gives me a reason to stay off the wagon. And it keeps Gavin from fucking with you.” Connor nodded at that, thinking it over for a second. That calculating look was the one thing that had changed the most since Connor had gone deviant. He had started off as a machine, but now, when he paused to think, he looked like anyone else, bar the color changing LED. He looked alive instead of just existing. It was a nice change.   
      “Alright. That sounds like an alright arrangement,” Connor nodded again, before suddenly realizing he had been stuck in place for longer than was socially acceptable. “I…well, goodnight, Hank. I’ll see you tomorrow.”   
     Connor quickly walked out of the room, the pants Hank had loaned him sitting low on his hips, nearly falling off. Hank made a mental note to go out and buy the kid some actually fitting pajamas at some point. He was much leaner than Hank was, less filled out around the middle, to put it nicely.   
      The door clicked shut again, and not five minutes later, Sumo whined to be let back out into the house. Hank got up and opened the door for him, looking down the hall and seeing the TV still on. He walked quietly down the hall, trying not to wake Connor if he was actually sleeping.   
      At the end of the hall, cuddled in blankets and dead asleep on the couch was CyberLife’s most expensive prototype himself. He’d fallen asleep with the TV on, tuned to some old ‘10s mecha movie. The remote was still clutched in his hand, half fallen to the ground. Hank pulled it away carefully, turning the TV off and setting the remote aside. Connor, in whatever sleep mode he was in, reacted to the change in light, turning to face toward the back cushions of the couch. Hank fixed the blankets for him, then turned back to go to his room.   
      He turned back for one last glance, something in his heart churning with feelings he’d forgotten he could have. Well, that was going to be inconvenient. 

“Something needed me once, and I know something will need me again.” –Neil Hilborn (The Future, For Henry Who Has Just Gone)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, this one is the end of the big upd8, but i should be finishing the next couple chapters soonish, got a lot going on rn, yall know how it be


End file.
